


Sea-change

by ComplicatedLight



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Community: lewis_challenge, Heatwave, I do seem to be obsessed with the emotional and relational impact of the weather, I suppose there's no denying I'm English then, Lewis Summer Challenge 2018, M/M, Stargazing, The cure for anything is salt water, The weather ships them!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 05:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15812781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/pseuds/ComplicatedLight
Summary: There are times when life suddenly, shockingly even, goes in some strange, unforeseen direction . . . and it’s perfect.





	1. Early Afternoon: In the office

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Lewis Summer Challenge. 
> 
> Takes place in a heatwave not unlike the one the UK experienced this summer - but set somewhere around series 4 or 5.

I don’t know what I want. Well, I want to get out of this bloody office before I die of heatstroke, that’s for sure. But other than that—I can’t settle to anything. I’ve been fidgety and restless for days, weeks, and it’s not like me. I’m not someone who can’t sit still. Hathaway has his moments, but not me. I like being steady. I like being focussed. I like knowing what I want to do. What I don’t like is not being able to keep my mind on anything and wanting to get up every time I sit down.

You’d think this bloody heatwave would have knocked me out, and it has in a way—I feel like a bit of limp lettuce in this office, specially in the afternoon—it’s hotter than the hobs of hell when the sun comes round to this side of the building. I’m overheated and I can’t get comfortable, and as soon as I try to settle to something, my mind’s off elsewhere.

It’s worst at night. It’s too hot to sleep so I just lie on top of the covers and . . . well, there have been _stirrings_ —for the first time in a long time. Not that surprising maybe, given the number of half-dressed people strolling round Oxford. You can’t go anywhere without being surrounded by bare shoulders and midriffs. Not that I gawp, but at night when I can’t sleep, lying there on my side of the bed (creature of habit, me), I do get . . . thoughts. I don’t often feel like _doing anything_ , but even this much interest is new. Well, new since Val . . . I thought I was done with all that. Bloody weather.

Wool-gathering again. Nothing to do—that’s my problem. My desk’s practically empty right now, which is a situation as rare as hens’ teeth and I know I should be happy about it. The good news is there hasn’t been a serious crime in weeks—no one’s got the energy. The bad news is that means me and Hathaway are cooped up in this office with its low ceilings and windows that don’t open—and certainly nothing as American as air conditioning. A few weeks back Hathaway managed to acquire a couple of desk fans which help a bit, but by early afternoon it just feels like they’re moving the hot, dusty air round. Maybe this is what being stranded in a desert feels like?

And there’s so little for us to do at this point we’re in danger of Innocent setting us to work on petty theft and disturbances of the peace. We’ll be back on the bloody beat at this rate. I’m bored with nothing to do but I don’t know what I want to do. It’s like being a sulky teenager again; a teenager someone has made wear a suit and tie. I’m a miserable, sweaty teenager in a miserable, sweaty suit.

Hathaway’s slouched behind his desk gazing vacantly into space—not something you see every day, I must say. You know it’s too hot when Hathaway starts looking clammy and wilted, and that happened three weeks ago. May was the hottest since records began and June’s shaping up to be even worse. Great.

Weirdly, he looks happy. More than happy, actually. If I was the type that uses fanciful words, I’d say blissful. Very odd—he’s hardly a bundle of joy at the best of times. Actually, he’s been a tetchy pain in the arse for weeks, but I can sympathise—he does even worse without meaningful occupation than I do: nothing to set that big old brain of his to work on, and that’s never good. So I can’t think what the hell he’s got to smile about, sitting in this bloody oven at two in the afternoon with nothing to do and at least three hours to get through before we can leave for the day.

He realises he’s being watched and scowls at me. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He makes a show of opening the file in front of him and starts to read but I’m not fooled. “You looked like you were miles away, James. Where were you off to? You seemed pretty pleased to be there, wherever it was.”

His cheeks get a bit of colour in them and he closes the file again with a look of resignation. “If you must know, I was swimming in the sea. It was very cold. Delicious.”

I can’t help smiling. He’s an unpredictable sod, I’ll give him that. “I’m sure it was delicious, Sergeant. Sounds a damned sight better than being stuck here. Just the small problem of Oxford being in the middle of the country. We’re unlikely to be able to visit Jericho-by-Sea anytime soon, even with what’s going on with the bloody climate.”


	2. An hour later: In the pub

We’re in the pub and it’s bloody awful—there’s nowhere to sit in the shade outside and the pub itself is rammed with students and tourists and shrieking kids. And the weather’s so hot we’ve been forced to change from beer, which was as tepid and unappetising as bath water the last time we tried it, to refrigerated cider. This is what it’s come to. Dark days, indeed.

I thought it might do us good to get out of the nick for a bit so I dreamt up an unnecessary errand that just happened to take us past the Vicky Arms. Not one of my better plans. We’re squashed in a corner and there’s a coach load of tourists streaming into the pub. God knows where they think they’re going to fit because it’s already heaving. And clearly no one’s given them the talk on Oxford pub etiquette—there’s a lot of shoving and shouting to each other and pushing in to get served. And there was I thinking nothing could be more unpleasant than my office. _Right_. I drain my glass. “Sod this for a game of soldiers.”

“Sir?”

“Come on. We’re off.”

Hathaway practically pouts. “We’ve only just got here.”

“I know. But look at the place, man.”

He looks around and sighs. “I know. But whilst significantly less crowded, your office is hardly more pleasant. No offence.”

I give him my best indulgent DI look. “None taken, Sergeant.”

We push our way through the crowds and get out into the car park. I steer us towards the scrap of shade alongside the pub wall. I’ve just had a thought. “Tell me if this is a really daft idea, James.”

He looks at me, suspiciously. 

“Hold your horses; I haven’t told you the sodding idea yet. I was just thinking about what you said earlier.”

He looks baffled. “What? That the canteen could be done under the Trade Descriptions Act for claiming the pasties have meat in them?”

_For God’s sake_. “No! Not that. You know, that the sea would still be really cold, this early in the summer. You said swimming in it would be delicious.”

He looks startled. “I did say that. And I’m sure it would be. But as you quite rightly pointed out, we don’t live by the sea, so—”

For a genius he can be bloody slow on the uptake, sometimes. “I know that. But we do live on an island; a not particularly big island. And we have cars and motorways and other such wonders. It wouldn’t be impossible, would it?”

“I don’t follow. What exactly are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting, Sergeant, that we drive to the seaside . . . and have a dip.”

The look of bafflement is back. “You mean finish early? Take the rest of the day off?”

“I know it must be an alien concept to you, James.”

He rolls his eyes at me. “Rearrange these words into a well-known phrase or saying. Pot. The Kettle. Black. Calling. It’s like the.”

Fair enough, I suppose. “Well then. It wouldn’t do either of us any harm, would it, to take a few hours off? Get away from Oxford?”

“You’re serious? We just phone in and tell them we’re finishing early?”

“I believe that’s how it’s done.”

He looks at me with utter disbelief, something that I find myself enjoying. It’s good to surprise him every now and again. Eventually he shrugs and gives me an amused look. “OK.”

We get into the car, which has been sitting in the roasting pub car park; it feels like getting into a greenhouse. Hathaway turns to me as he puts his seatbelt on. There are beads of sweat along his hairline. He frowns. “Are we going to swim?”

“That was the plan.”

“What? In our pants?”

“Personally, I thought I’d pop home and grab my swimming trunks, but whatever floats your boat.”

He splutters and shakes his head. “Trunks, to use your antiquated terminology, are fine, thanks.”

__________________________________________________

I crank up the air-conditioning—thank God for modern cars—and head towards James’ place. “You better phone in. Let them know what we’re up to.”

He looks at me grumpily but gets his phone out of his pocket. “What shall I say?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. You’re a detective sergeant; you’re supposed to be able to think on your feet.” I’m looking forward to hearing what he does come up with, I must say.

He turns away from me as he phones and looks out the passenger window. 

“Becky? Hi, it’s James Hathaway. Hi. Yes, it does seem to be even hotter today, doesn’t it? Speaking of which—”

There’s a long pause while Becky, Jean Innocent’s assistant, natters on about something or other.

Even from the back of his head, I can see Hathaway’s exasperation. “Lamb burgers sound delicious, Becky.”

She clearly has plenty to say on the subject. New officers, particularly the blokes, sometimes make the mistake of assuming Becky’s liking for a natter is a sign that she’s a bit dim or at least not to be taken seriously. They make that mistake at their peril. She’s as sharp as a knife and she wields a lot of power in this nick: she has Innocent’s ear, she runs Innocent’s diary, and she deals with the staff rota and all annual leave applications. If you get on the wrong side of her, she won’t make your working life a misery, but she will make it inconvenient. And I think the chattering is a power move; I think she gets a real kick out of making macho, arrogant detectives discuss curtain fabric and soap operas and the like before she deigns to grant them an audience with the Chief Super. Hathaway and I generally get off pretty lightly, which I take as a sign that we have her approval. Hathaway sighs as he listens to her, but sensibly, he sounds friendly and unhurried when he replies. “Having vegetarians at a barbeque does raise several dilemmas—”

He’s resting his forehead against the window as he listens. 

“Oh, vegans. You have my deepest sympathy.”

I can hear her laughing at that and Hathaway takes his opportunity. “Look, Becky, I’ve got a bit of an odd, well, the thing is, DI Lewis and I . . . would like to take the rest of the afternoon off. We’re both owed a lot of lieu time, and we haven’t got an active case right now, so . . .”

She asks a question.

“Yes, both of us.”

More questions.

James sighs. “Well, we’re planning a trip to the seaside, if you must know.”

Personally, in his shoes, I might have come up with a slightly different story.

More sighing. “Yes, I understand you’ll need to run it past the Chief Super.” 

He ends the call and looks hard done by. 

“Nice chat?”

He gives me a _sod off_ look but says nothing. 

We’re just pulling into his street when his phone rings and there’s a brief exchange. The call ends and he puts his phone back in his pocket.

“Well?”

He looks pained. “Innocent says we shouldn’t forget our buckets and spades.”

He disappears into his flat but I decide to stay put in the air-conditioned car. I switch on Classic FM and listen to a very nice string quartet while I’m waiting. I’ve no idea what the piece is but I’m sure Hathaway will enlighten me on his return. He re-emerges ten minutes later looking like he’s in an advert for posh holidays in the Caribbean. Well, his clothes—a pristine white linen shirt and some sand coloured trousers that somehow manage to look casual and elegant at the same time—say villa with own butler on St Lucia. The three tatty shopping bags and enormous cool box he’s lugging say something closer to dodgy weekend in Margate. He loads it all into the boot and gets in the car.

“Looks like you’ve got everything but the kitchen sink, there. You planning on being away for a fortnight?” 

He just looks at me enigmatically. “Who knows?”

When we get to my place, Hathaway stays in the car and I go in to ponder my sartorial options. I’m not quite sure what to wear—I don’t have much in the way of beachwear these days. It was a different story when I was in the BVIs, but whatever I’ve got left from those days is packed away in the attic and I’m buggered if I’m going to climb up there, especially in this heat. In the end, inspired by Hathaway, I put on the pale blue linen shirt that’s been hanging unworn in my wardrobe since Lyn got it for me for my birthday two years ago, and dig out a pair of what I think of as summer slacks but our Lyn insists I should call chinos if I don’t want people to mistake me for a pensioner.


	3. Evening: The Sea and the Stars

It’s well gone eight when we finally arrive. It’s been a long, tedious drive through rush-hour traffic, only made bearable by the BMW’s air conditioning. In fact, just south of Newbury, Hathaway suggested we abandon the plan to get to the coast and just drive round for a few hours in “this beautifully engineered fridge on wheels” instead. I’m fairly sure he was joking, though you can never tell with him. I’m also fairly sure he was feeling guilty, as well he might: it was his bloody idea for us to traipse all the way down to Dorset to experience the joys of an iron age settlement next to a secluded, sandy beach—this, he’d read from some tourism website on his phone as we set off. Personally, I would have settled for a pebbly beach and fish and chips at Brighton or some such, but apparently my lot in life is to try and keep my long-faced sergeant happy. Glutton for punishment, me.

Also, never trust a satnav. Well, they’re all right on main roads and in towns. But if you’re trying to get to an exact destination in the countryside or just a bit off the beaten track? Good luck with that. The bloody satnav in the BMW swore blind we’d arrived at Hengistbury Head, and we, like the fools we are, believed it. We parked up, got all the bags together and set off. It’s taken us twenty minutes of marching along the top of a cliff with not a scrap of shade in sight to find a way down to the beach. I’m sweating buckets and we’re both so loaded down with bags and towels and God knows what else, we look like we’re headed off for an expedition into the Hindu Kush rather than a quick splash in the sea in Dorset. Hathaway is really struggling with his monster of a cool box but I can’t see how I can help him.

“What the hell have you got in there, anyway, James?”

He sighs. “Everything I could find.”

__________________________________________________

We follow the path from the cliff top down through the sand dunes towards the surprisingly empty beach. Of course the kiddies aren’t on school holidays yet, but I was expecting there’d be some locals cooling off in the sea at the end of the day. And maybe there are, further down the beach, but we’re so far from the official car park I guess we’re unlikely to bump into anyone. I have to admit—the quiet is nice.

As we pick our way down through the dunes, the sun, which is a fiery, orange ball now, is sinking steadily towards the sea, setting the waves on fire. It’s breath-taking, but we can’t stand around gawping at the spectacle—I feel like I’m going to spontaneously combust if I don’t get into the water soon.

We’re near the base of the dunes when Hathaway says, “What about here?” He nods towards a little flat area surrounded by tufts of long, spikey grass. There’s enough space for all our bags and to spread out the blanket he’s brought.

“Aye, that’ll do nicely. Let’s just leave everything here for now and get in the sea before we melt or pass out. We can sort it all out after.”

I thought it might be a bit awkward getting my kit off in front of Hathaway, even though I took the precaution of putting my trunks on under my trousers. But as soon as we spread out the blanket and dump the bags, he pulls his shirt off over his head—doesn’t even undo the buttons—and drops it onto the blanket, and then unties the drawstring holding his trousers up and drops them too. Before I’ve even finished taking my shirt off he’s hurtling—all pale, lithe limbs and turquoise shorts—down the last bit of the dunes and sprinting towards the sea. He runs full tilt into the water and I just reach the start of the beach as he dives under the surface—a flash of white light fading into the green-blue depths. He surfaces further out as I reach the water’s edge, he rockets up so that he’s clear of the water right down to his hips, and then he shouts _Jesus fucking Christ, it’s cold_ and falls back into the water, laughing.

He floats on his back, watching me as I walk into the shallows, so there’s no option but to stride in in as manly a fashion as I can manage. He’s not wrong—it is bloody cold—but I do my best to keep the shock off my face and follow his example and dive in.

It’s so cold my whole body feels like it’s on fire, the kind of fire you get from bare skin against ice. I get an image of myself as a seal, darting through Arctic waters after shoals of fish and it makes me laugh, so I have to come up again pretty sharpish so I don’t end up swallowing a mouthful of salty water. James swims over to me, looking pretty bloody happy. 

“OK, James?”

He stands up, the water’s surface just reaching his chest, and shakes the sea out of his hair, showering me with droplets. “Definitely. Absolutely. I am, without reservation, OK.”

“I’ll take that as a yes, then, shall I?”

He laughs again. “You should.” 

But then he looks at me intently for a moment or two and I must be a bit blue about the gills because he tells me to swim around to warm up. And he’s right; within a couple of minutes the shock’s worn off and the water does that thing where it feels like it’s warmed up, though really, it’s you that’s cooled down. 

We head away from the beach until we’re both out of our depth and then swim up and down parallel to the shoreline, not quite racing each other but pushing ourselves a bit. Maybe we’re both just enjoying the feeling of actually having the energy to move, after all these weeks of heat-induced lethargy. We’re pretty well matched in terms of speed, though we differ a lot in terms of how that speed is achieved. Hathaway, surprising no one, glides through the water like a long, elegant arrow shot through the air. I, on the other hand, have to resort to brute strength in the absence of graceful technique, but it feels good to have my muscles working and my heart pumping, and I’m pleased to be able to keep up with him.

After a good ten or fifteen minutes of that, we move into the shallower, slightly less chilly water near the shoreline and just float about for a while. The feeling of having some skin exposed to the warm air and some submerged in the cool water is exactly as Hathaway predicted it would be—delicious. We don’t say much to each other—I think we’re both just lost in the sheer pleasure of it; but he stays close by.

Eventually, we tire. We’re hungry and thirsty and finally willing to relinquish the joy of being in the water. This time I do feel a bit self-conscious, the two of us walking back up the beach, swimming trunks wet and clinging. I find I’m being very careful to look at Hathaway’s face as we chat and make our way back to the dunes. 

We towel ourselves dry-ish and then flop down on the blanket and stretch out, side-by-side; and now, finally, the heat of the day, which has mellowed to a soft warmth, is welcome. I’m tired and comfortable and just close my eyes for a sec. I only realise I’m drifting off when I feel Hathaway move.

I’m honestly not trying to watch him get dressed, but he’s not particularly shy about it—he just stands there and gets on with it. He dries his top half and slips his shirt back on. I stand up and busy myself with my own clumsy struggle to get out of wet trunks without flashing anyone. Almost immediately he’s pulling his loose, linen trousers back on and I realise he hasn’t put any underwear on. Daft, the things a middle-aged man can be scandalised by! I worked vice for God’s sake, but my sergeant decides not to put his pants on, and I’m blushing like a virgin.

“You alright, sir?”

I realise I’ve come to a halt and am just standing there, towel wrapped round me and my boxers in my hand. I nod towards the cool box. “I assume you’ve got some sort of drink in that leviathan?” (See, I did learn something from Morse and his crosswords). “Why don’t you stop worrying about me and make yourself useful?”

He grins at me and makes a show of turning his back and rummaging in the box. I hesitate for a moment and then drop my boxers back into my bag and get my trousers back on. Bunking off work and going commando—whatever next?

I settle myself back down onto the blanket and James takes that as his cue to turn round.

“Drink, sir.” He reaches over with a bottle of water—and a bottle of beer.

“Both for me?”

“Both for you. I’ve got the same.”

“Ta very much.

I don’t realise how thirsty I am until I start on the water—almost drain the bottle in one go, one blissful gulp after another. When I stop, James is watching me.

“I’ve got more if you need another?”

“Nah, that’ll do me for now. I’ll make a start on the beer. I am hungry though. What have you got to eat? I just grabbed a couple of bags of crisps and some apples. Nothing substantial, I’m afraid.” 

It turns out that James and his cool box have got it covered. We work our way through crab pâté and crackers, some kind of soft, runny French cheese that smells like ripe feet but tastes incredible, apples, grapes, crisps, and some fancy Mediterranean veg—red peppers and aubergine and the like—covered in olive oil and herbs, that we eat straight from the jar, leaning over the sand to avoid dripping oil on the blanket.

“Al fresco dining—very sophisticated, James; very continental.”

He tuts at me. “I’m insulted. I was aiming for the kind of picnic a domestic servant would pack for a bunch of posh kids in an Enid Blyton book. Shame I was out of bloater paste.”

“Thank Heavens for small mercies.” He laughs and we clink beer bottles.

By the time we’ve finished the picnic and cleared everything away, the sun has dropped below the horizon. The sky over the sea is still pale pinkish, but higher up it’s darkening and softening into violet and purple. I lay back and look directly above me. “It’s going to be a clear night. There’ll be stars up soon.”

James lies down next to me. “Sounds nice. What’s the plan? Can we stay a bit longer, do you think?”

I can’t think of anything I’d like more, to be honest. “I don’t see why not. It’s not like we’ve got anything pressing to do back home, is it? And it’ll stay warm enough overnight to be outside.” I can’t quite believe what I’m suggesting.

“Oh.” He sounds as surprised as I was as I said it. “You mean stay here all night?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought it through. I just know I’m more comfortable than I’ve been for weeks and I’m not keen to go. What about you?”

He answers immediately. “Let’s stay. We should definitely stay. But it’s your turn to phone Becky tomorrow morning and break the news.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Sergeant.” I have absolutely no intention of being the one who phones Becky. What are sergeants for if not to give you the pleasure of listening in on them making awkward phone calls?

We lie there for a while, just watching, and sure enough the first stars of the evening begin to appear. We quietly point them out to each other, as if speaking in anything above a whisper might disturb them as they go about their celestial business.

“I expect you know all the constellations, James?”

“Not many, actually. I spent more of my youth with my head in books than I did looking up at the night sky. What about you?”

“Not a lot of star-gazing, that’s for sure. Not that much reading, either, if I’m honest.”

I’m expecting something sarky back, but I get nothing other than a nudge to look where he’s pointing.

“I know all about that one: Orion, the hunter.”

“Where?”

“There—you can see the line of stars that form his belt.”

“I’ve got the belt but I can’t see the rest of him.” And I can see the belt; well, I can see a little row of twinkling lights that fits James’ description. But I can’t for the life of me see the rest of the bugger. Not that it really matters—I’m more than content just lying here in the dark, looking up at the sky and listening to James. But it’s obvious that himself won’t let it go until I can pick Orion out of a line-up of constellations. He tells me that Orion was, according to Homer, _the most handsome of the earthborn, broad of shoulder and with a great sword hanging down_. I’m not sure if James is taking the piss or not. Either way, I still can’t see a hunter and I’m just about to tell him to forget it when he shuffles over so his head is right next to mine; so close I can feel his hair brushing against my ear. I wonder what the hell he’s up to but then he takes hold of my hand and wraps his own big, bony hand round it. He extends out our arms and leans in even closer so he can look down the length of my arm. He uncurls my index finger and straightens it to use as a pointer. 

“Look,” he says, as if the only thing going on here is a bit of astronomy tuition . . . and maybe for him it is. “Look down your arm and out along your finger. I’ll trace the outline for you.”

His cheek is actually brushing against mine; I suppose it’s the only way he can see exactly what I can see. I honestly think he’s so caught up in the chance to teach me something, he’s oblivious.

“That star there is Betelgeuse, that’s Orion’s right shoulder, assuming he’s facing us. And if you move across and down a bit”—he takes the tip of my finger between his own finger and thumb and steers it in the right direction— “that’s Bellatrix, his left shoulder.” 

James might be oblivious, but I’m not. 

He presses his finger along the length of mine. “Have you got it?”

“Yes.” Which is a bloody miracle given how hard I’m finding it to notice anything other than the fact that James is sprawled against me, with the side of his face pressing against mine. He’s holding my hand, for God’s sake!

“Good.” I can feel his smile against my cheek. 

I can feel it in my chest.

“If you move down here, there’s Rigel, his left foot, and then across here is his right foot—the star’s called something like Saiph, I think. Got them?”

“Yes.”

He smells like the sea; salt-washed.

He redirects my fingertip with the slightest pressure from the pad of his thumb. “Down here, hanging from his belt, is his sword. There’s Hatsya, the bright tip of the sword.”

Really?! Did the ancient scholars really just see it as his sword?! I’m amused and genuinely curious, but I can’t bring myself to ask James. I’m unable to ask whether _sword_ isn’t just a euphemism for _penis_ ; surely it’s one of those not very funny scholarly jokes? And maybe I can be forgiven for not being able to find the words to ask, while my sergeant is half lying across me with his own _sword_ unsheathed, as it were, and pressing against my leg. 

James stops talking. Either he’s exhausted his astronomical knowledge, or he’s suddenly caught on to the—I’m not quite sure what the right word is— _ambiguity_ , maybe, of our situation. He rests my hand on my chest and then rolls away so he’s lying on his back. He’s still by my side, but he’s put a few inches gap between us.

I don’t know what I thought was going on . . . but I do know, all of a sudden, that it’s possible to almost feel lonely, even when there’s someone lying there, right next to you.

__________________________________________________

I think I’ve been dozing off and on for a while. Not fully asleep, but drifting a bit. I’m pretty certain a change in the sound of the sea brought me back. I whisper in case James is already asleep. “Sounds like the tide’s turning.”

“Mmm. A sea-change.” His voice is a low, drowsy rumble. 

“I suppose.” I’m not quite sure what he’s getting at. I feel him shift slightly; turn towards me. 

“Full fathom five thy father lies,  
Of his bones are coral made,  
Those are pearls that were his eyes,  
Nothing of him that doth fade,  
But doth suffer a sea-change,  
into something rich and strange,  
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell,  
Ding-dong.  
Hark! now I hear them, ding-dong, bell.”

It’s familiar but I can’t quite place it. “Shakespeare?”

“The Tempest.”

“It doesn’t sound too cheerful.”

He leans over towards me and murmurs in my ear. “Don’t worry. It all turns out well in the end.”

__________________________________________________

I wake in the depths of the night and nearly cry out at the beauty of the sky. There’s almost no moon and the sky is a vast ocean of the darkest, velvety indigo, lit by countless stars glittering above us. In my sleep I seem to have shifted into the middle of the blanket, towards James; presumably I’ve been moving nearer to the only source of warmth because of how chilly the air is now. I get hold of my side of the blanket, moving carefully so as not to wake him, and drape it over both of us. James is so unmoving as I arrange it over us I wonder if he’s actually awake and is just pretending to sleep. But he’s lying on his side, facing away from me, so I’ve got no way of knowing unless I do my wondering out loud, and well, I find myself unwilling to do anything to disturb things.

Despite the strangeness of the situation—and the beauty of it—I can feel myself settling back into sleep almost as soon as I close my eyes.

__________________________________________________

I wake again for a second time to a pre-dawn sky still ink-dark overhead but just starting to lighten round the edges. I’m wrapped in the blanket—and in James’ arms. I’m shocked and I’m not shocked.

I mean, _Christ_ , I’m lying in James’ arms, my face buried in his chest and my own arm curled tight around his waist; of course I’m shocked. But I can’t quite make myself feel uncomfortable about it. I can’t even convince myself I’m surprised; not really.

His chest is warm and solid. I lie quietly, reluctant to move, reluctant to begin the process that will lead to this moment ending. But something in my effortful stillness must give me away because James takes in a deep breath. 

“I didn’t want you to get cold,” he whispers.

“Thank you,” I say to his chest.

Neither of us says anything else for a minute, both unsure what’s meant to happen next, I suppose. Then he sighs. “Do you want to move?” 

The easiest thing would be to move away from him: to make a joke, to pretend this is nothing. I could call him Sergeant; I could complain about my back; I could mention Becky or Innocent or breakfast. There are a thousand ways I could put those few inches of distance back between us.

I can feel his heart where my head’s resting against him. I listen to the comforting beat of it . . . and I can’t for the life of me think why I would want to stop listening to it.

“I’m happy where I am, James.”

I can’t see it or feel it directly, but I know he’s smiling. He wraps a hand round the back of my head and pulls me in even closer, and we lie together, everything changed and yet everything familiar, as the new day slowly emerges from the star-lit night.

__________________________________________________

I know that soon enough we are going to have to move. We’re going to have to pack up our little camp and drive home. We’re going to have to look each other in the eye and see where on earth we are, after all this; see if we’re still standing together; see if we’re still swimming in the same sea. We’re going to have to talk; take risks; make decisions.

All the difficult things.

But before that, before we have to do the difficult things, we can have this. We should just let ourselves have this.

I press myself closer to him.

He kisses the top of my head and it’s my turn to smile an unseen smile.

Of course, I don’t know for sure what the future holds for us. We can never really know, can we? If life’s taught me anything, it’s that. 

James kisses the top of my head again. He starts rubbing his lips back and forth against my hair and I feel his heart, where my cheek rests against it, wake up a bit. My heart wakes up a bit too, come to that.

I’ve spent the years since Val went thinking I know everything there is to know about the unpredictability of things; the nasty surprises life can throw at you. It occurs to me now that perhaps, over the years, I’ve lost sight of something. Yes, there are times when the sudden shifts in life are disastrous. But, what’s completely obvious to me in this moment, as I lie here feeling oddly at home in James’ arms, is that there are also times when life suddenly, shockingly even, goes in some strange, unforeseen direction . . . and it’s perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Literary notes:
> 
> James recites to Robbie the second stanza of Ariel's song from The Tempest
> 
> One of my tags is from a quote from Karen Blixen: "The cure for anything is salt water — sweat, tears, or the sea."
> 
> Other notes: For those of you who (happily!) have never heard of it, bloater paste was a fish paste made from salted, smoked herrings called “bloaters,” smoked whole with the insides still in them. Children in Enid Blyton books appeared to be willing to eat it on toast and in sandwiches. How times change!


End file.
